


Star Trek: SVU

by lastthatlong



Category: Law & Order: SVU, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Domestic Violence, M/M, Multi, Sexual Abuse, unrealistic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:34:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7955185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastthatlong/pseuds/lastthatlong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Hikaru Sulu and his partner, James T Kirk, are detectives for San Francisco's Special Victims Unit. The cases they investigate soon become personal--and life-changing--for them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> First, an apology to anyone who works with or has knowledge of the police, the law, and healthcare settings. This is not intended to be accurate; it's entirely fictional and admittedly poorly researched. Second, this deals with topics such as rape and domestic violence, so take care of yourself. Be aware of what you are or are not comfortable reading.

By the time they get there, neighbors are starting to creep in. They stand outside the first wave of police cars, caught like guilty children when the next set of flashing lights arrives. Kirk parks the vehicle, and before he turns off the engine he whispers to his partner: 

"I bet you a beer she won't talk to us."

Hikaru scoffs. "That's low. I'll take it, but I don't drink beer, you know." 

Kirk doesn't grin; he sighs and his grey eyes slide out of focus. "I'm sorry to say this, kid, but I'll be winning this one."

Kid. It's all in good fun, harassing the new detective on his first night out, but to Hikaru it stings a little. The truth is, Hikaru is just as old as Kirk, but he gets called kid tonight because Kirk's daddy was Someone Important. And so Kirk cheated his way into becoming a detective. Or at least that's what the rumors are. 

In any case, Hikaru is definitely outpaced by his partner's experience. And by his longer legs. He has to jog a little to get to one of the squad cars where Kirk is discussing the situation with an officer. 

"Batista says it's a typical DV, but with a weapon and possible CSC." Kirk grins this time, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'll handle the husband if you speak with the wife, ok?"

Hikaru nods and holds back a sigh. There it is again, that feeling that Kirk is babying him. Putting him on the more sensitive parts of the job. He walks past a second squad car to the open front door of a 60's style home. San Francisco doesn't seem so cheery and colorful when lit up by police cars. 

She's small and shaky, skittish like a rabbit. Kirk was right about the weapon -- the walls are dented, there's broken glass on the floor, and there's a bloody gash on the woman's shoulder. Why didn't they call for an ambulance? Hikaru wonders. He can feel the stomach acid climbing up his throat. In the time it takes him to pull out a pen, pad and his card, the woman has pulled her arms and legs close to herself, almost in a ball, as if expecting a blow from Hikaru as well. Even with the warm summer air flowing inside, she seems cold. 

"So...your name is Janice? Is that correct?"

She nods, maybe. She doesn't look up when Hikaru speaks to her. 

"Janice Rand?"

No response. 

Hikaru sighs. "I'm detective Sulu from the Special Victims Unit. Would you like to tell me what happened here tonight?"

No response. She seems tearful, so Hikaru tries again, keeping his voice as soft as when he last saw his mother, or when his dog cuddles up to him during a thunderstorm. "You look hurt and scared. We want to know how this happened. We can help you. Now tell me, Janice, who did this to you? We can keep you safe."

She shakes her head, keeping her eyes locked on the floor. And for the rest of the interview -- if it could be called an interview -- she never looks up at Hikaru. 

"I hope she agreed to take the ambulance," Hikaru remarks, later that night as their shift is ending. "And by the way, Kirk, you were right. She didn't talk. Guess I owe you a beer."

"No, kid," Kirk says, clearing his throat. "Hikaru, tonight I"m buying beers for us both."


	2. Chapter 2

Hikaru is his name at home. His old name; the name for the person with an easy laugh and a modicum of common sense; the name for the person who wasn’t sick enough to make his living off the worst things people could do. It’s a name he doesn’t hear much anymore. 

And this isn’t home: dimly lit, partitioned off so that small groups of people can regroup or grieve in private – or so that those not allowed in the upstairs rooms could grieve alone. Hikaru hadn’t meant to end up here; he came to visit his mother but he was just a minute late. His father had forbidden him from entering. 

“The stress you’ll cause her just isn’t worth it.”

And Hikaru, like an idiot, had agreed, since his father was already so frail, and now so broken, caring for someone who may no longer be herself. And you shouldn’t stress her, especially, Hikaru thinks now. He’s been nothing but stress for them for the last year, since they found out he was marching in San Francisco pride. Since his visits to them became less frequent and more pointed. Since he joined SVU and all their rage came down upon him – because who would he join the team if he was a sexual deviant himself? 

And Hikaru, like an idiot, believes this when his father invokes it over and over again. Like an idiot, he’s sitting in the hospital cafeteria alone. Like an idiot, he covers his eyes and sighs loud enough for others to hear. 

“You ok hon?”

He looks up to see a gray-haired woman with a youthful face and pierced cheeks. Her nametag reads NURSE EXTERN CHRISTINE. 

Hikaru nods, flips his hair so it covers his eyes and tries not to blush. 

“If you’d like company, my patient says you can sit with him,” she says, though it sounds forced. “He’s not doing much of anything right now.” Is she coming on to him? Hikaru feels uneasy. 

And yet, he agrees. 

The nurse (or nurse extern, whatever that means) is about Hikaru’s age, he reasons, but her attitude toward her patient is more like that of a teenager. Her patient is small, possibly just a kid, and hunched over an untouched tray of food. All Hikaru can see of his face is a mop of tight curls. Nurse Christine sighs and tells her patient, “you know, you’ll get out of here faster if you start eating again.”

All of a sudden, Hikaru’s police training kicks in. Something’s not right about this picture, but he can’t put his finger on it—

“I know,” the patient replies, not moving his head. He sounds like he might have an accent, or maybe some kind of injury is muffling his speech. 

“Then please get to eating,” Nurse Christine scolds. She checks her phone. “We need to get back upstairs in twenty minutes.”

And still, the patient doesn’t eat. Hikaru is starting to regret sitting with them, but something about this patient isn’t right. Of course he’s not all right; he’s in the hospital, gown and all, he thinks, but the feeling remains. 

Suddenly the patient lifts his head and stares and Hikaru is paralyzed. Something about it strikes him as … bright, he supposes. Clear. Hikaru can see now that he isn’t a kid, but something has him crouching down, making himself smaller. In the corner of the cafeteria, he looks like he’s been trying to hide. 

And then there are the bruises. 

“What’s your name?” The patient asks, speaking with difficulty around a bandage that reaches from the top of his cheekbone, near the ear, to the corner of his mouth. One of his eyes is slightly closed from swelling, but his bright hazel eyes shine through. 

“Hikaru,” he breathes back. “What’s yours?”

He’s been a detective at SVU for days, but before that there were ride-alongs, shadowings, briefings, lectures, and the sharing of stories that the older detectives were able to admit. Among one of the trainings was a brief course on the medical signs of things – shock, PTSD, signs of assault – run by the city’s new but cantankerous medical examiner, Dr. McCoy. While lecturing on and on in the overheated room he taught from, Dr. McCoy liked to pick on Hikaru, trying to make him squeamish.

“Sulu,” he barked one long afternoon, in the middle of a lecture Hikaru barely remembered. “Look at the picture on the top of the screen and tell me which of the bottom pictures it matches.”

Up at the top of the screen was a blown up picture of what Hikaru had to assume was a face. There was hair and lips and a bit of a nose, but the rest was swollen and discolored. Bruised in the worst way he’d ever seen. Beneath it were four other faces, hurt but less severely, healed enough to look like faces again. Grimacing, Hikaru guessed the first of the four.

“No!” Dr. McCoy shouted.

“The second one on the left?” guessed another trainee.

“No!”

“The one on the right?”

“No,” Dr. McCoy said. “You all got it wrong. But I expected that. You’re only beginners. I wanted to teach you one thing, if it’s all you remember today: It’s hard to match a bruised face to one that’s healing.” 

And he was right: something that battered seemed so different from a human face, as if the trauma had turned it into something else entirely. The bruised face sometimes shows up in Hikaru’s nightmares. 

But that face bore no similarity to the one across from him, to the person that says, “Chekov, Pavel Chekov” like an eager recruit and holds out a hand to shake, his left hand. Hikaru follows, awkwardly, and suddenly feels himself smiling and blushing even more. 

At the same time, though, he can’t shake his police instincts. Sitting in a corner with a view of the whole room, healing bruises on his face, a wound making it difficult to eat, and using his left hand instead of the right … this patient – Pavel – may have been a victim of assault. The way he hesitated at first to meet Hikaru’s eyes, as if he were expecting a blow – it was the mannerisms of the woman he’d interviewed just a few days ago, the one who’d said nothing. 

Just as Hikaru begins to reach a conclusion, a voice comes on the overhead speakers: visiting hours were over, and all guests should leave the hospital.

He takes one more look at that hurt face with the hazel eyes, and offers his apologies for leaving. But before he gathers his things and walks away, he reaches for his pocket – almost by instinct – and pulls out one of his cards. DETECTIVE HIKARU SULU – SPECIAL VICTIMS UNIT.

“Stay in touch,” he says.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI: there are some mentions of child sexual abuse in this chapter.

When Hikaru comes back to work on Monday, Jim doesn’t greet him. Though he knocks over a few empty energy drink can on his desk as he does it, he throws a file into Hikaru’s arms. CSA case, he explains without looking up. He’s glaring at his laptop screen and scrolling furiously. Could Hikaru walk it into the right A.D.A.? 

Hikaru stops at his own desk, where a small mountain of files has popped up.

“What’s this?”

“The Rand case. She went to the ER over the weekend and filed a report with us. It seem like her husband has quite the record; I pulled his files for you.”

“Thanks….” Hikaru tries not to let it sound like a question. “And you finished this CSA case, too?” he asks, wracking his brain for what the acronym stands for. 

Jim’s voice sounds tight. “It hit a nerve with me, I guess. I had to do something to get it off my mind,” he gest out, gesturing with his shoulder to the file on Hkiaru’s desk. “Spock should be the one you’re looking for,” he prods. 

And with that, Hikaru walks back into the main lobby of the police station, where the third shift cops seem more than happy to leave last night’s problems to their replacements. Hikaru sees – and recognizes – the nightly drunk, the homeless, the college kids, and Gaila, the exotic dancer with a knack for seedy customers. He pauses, musing that he may never have to talk to them again, now that his career has moved on. 

He thinks he might miss it. 

The prosecutor’s office is, of course, in a much nicer building than the PD. Hikaru feels uneasy as he goes through security—the X-shaped windows in this post-modern design give him the impression of something alien. 

Mr. Spock gives him that impression as well. He’s waiting in the doorway when Hikaru arrives, standing up straight and tall. He’s wearing nearly all black, save for a dark emerald tie. His office is similar: all dark books and black wood bookshelves, a matching desk and plain, uncomfortable chairs. Spock invites Hikaru in with a cold tone of voice and sits behind the desk. 

“Please, explain the case to me,” he says. 

Hikaru starts and begins to flip through the folder, finally remembering what CSA stands for: child sexual abuse. 

He gulps, looking back at Spock, and blurt out, “This is really Jim’s case. He investigated it, not me.” 

One of Spock’s eyebrows rises. “I see. Well, tell Jim that I miss seeing him at the prosecutor’s office. You can live the file on the desk.” 

Hikaru does as he’s told, but the name on the front of the folder catches his attention: Frank York.

 

Later that day, Hikaru and Jim are driving to the hospital to see Janice Rand. She’s been admitted and asked to speak with SVU specifically. Or at least that’s what Jim says. As a new detective, Hikaru spends his days mostly being ordered around by Jim. 

“Spock wanted me to tell you something,” Hikaru starts when they’ve cleared the police department’s parking lot. 

Jim grins just slightly. “Oh yeah?”

“He says he misses you around the D.A.’s office. I didn’t know you two were friends,” he says, trying to keep Jim smiling. 

But Jim’s face drops. “Sometimes,” he says. “As much as I can be with a lawyer. We investigate these cases—we know who the bad guys are; we know what they did—but the lawyers up there in the prosecutor’s office don’t have to file charges if they don’t want to. It’s bullshit,” he says, tightening his grip on the teering wheel. 

“I understand that,” Hikaru says. He lets out a fake laugh ad hopes the tension fades. “We can’t do much more than our best with these cases, though. At the end of the day, we did our part, you know?” 

Jim sighs, his eyes on the road. 

 

The difficult thing about broken arms, Hikaru learns, is that not all of them are set back into place so easily. Sure, it’s not too much trouble to reset a simple break, to feel the bone go straight again. But when an arm is hit so many time with a hammer, when there are bone shards all over the place, intraosseous vessels severed, and the scaphoid bone is involved, the only real way to fix the arm is surgery. 

Hikaru doesn’t understand all the terminology, but he takes it down as best he can into his notebook as the doctor explains. He takes a few different angles of x-ray pictures for the file, then waits outside Mrs. Rand’s bed as Jim takes her statement. 

“Janice?” Jim asks, and Hikaru hears from the doorway. “Can you identify who did this, Janice?” 

Hikaru thinks he hears a voice, a faint one. Maybe Mr. Rand decided to speak after all, he ponders, until someone grabs his elbow. 

It’s the nurse from before, Nurse Chapel. Her eyes are open wide in shock. 

“I…we…are you special victims?” she asks. “I have a patient here who needs to speak to a detective.” 

 

The difficult thing about first interviews with victims is that they’re often fruitless. The shock or the horror of what has just happened often makes them afraid—or simply unable—to speak. Hikaru jots down the information Nurse Chapel gives him as they navigate the hospital hallways. Male, 22, came in with etOH, suicidal ideations and signs of a beating. Disclosed a sexual assault to a PCT almost an hour ago. 

“The PCT was me,” Chapel says. “He’s not consented to a SANE exam but he wants to talk to police. I figured since you were in the building already…”

“PCT…I thought you were a nurse?” Hikaru asks once he’s finished writing. 

Chapel grins, the jewel in her cheek glinting. “Not yet, I’m not." 

It takes a minute for Hikaru to realize that the patient is someone he’s met before. His bruises are healing, his face less swollen, and he’s not holding his shoulder as stiffly. 

“Pavel,” Hikaru says softly. He wants to ask him so many things – how is he, what happened to him, who did it, has it happened before, is he getting care – but he stops himself, trying to stay professional. 

He takes a seat next to Pavel’s bed. “We’ve met before,” he begins, “but I want to remind you that everything you say to me is confidential. And I want to reassure you that being assaulted is never your fault, so it’s ok to tell me everything, even if you think it might sound bad. I’ve heard it all,” he lies. He knows enough to say that it’s never the victim’s fault, but he can hardly stand here and pretend that this isn’t only his second interview as a special victims detective. 

“I know how these go,” Pavel says as Hikaru is turning a page on his notepad. “I tell you what happened, then you do nothing.” He lies back in bed, the pillow making a soft huff beneath him. His arms are crossed as he stares at the ceiling. 

“That’s not necessarily true,” Hikaru counters. “We’ll pursue your case—“

“—as best we can,” Pavel finishes. “The other detective says that, too.” 

So maybe he knows Jim, Hikaru realizes. Sounds a lot like him, too. 

“That’s true,” Hikaru concedes. “But we mean it. We really do try our best. And maybe this will be different from your past experiences with—"

“Take this.”

Pavel’s accent, Hikaru realizes now, isn’t an accent at all. The garbled vowels and consonants are nearly perfect, now that the facial swelling has gone down. 

Pavel doesn’t look at Hikaru as he holds out a card—Hikaru’s card, the one he’d given him earlier, to a more timid and vulnerable man. Not the same person as the Pavel he sees now, cold and defiant. 

“If you want to know what happened, you can call me anytime,” he spits. And as Hikaru looks closer, there is a phone number scribbled across the front of the card. 

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” Pavel says. “I only called you in to make the nurse happy.”


	4. Chapter 4

“He’ll talk,” Jim assures Hikaru later that night over a beer. Or rather, several beers—Hikaru has barely had two while Jim is on his fourth. 

“I’ve had him before,” Jim says, his speech only slightly slurred. “He always claims at first that what happened to him was consensual. But…it’s not.” He takes another drink, leaving some froth on his upper lip. “He finally tells us what really happened, and we forward it to the prosecutor’s office, and—" he pounds on the table, hard, “—nothing. They never fucking press charges. Except for the kid cases. And I can’t—I don’t—“ Jim takes another drink. “That reminds me. The Rand case, there are kids involved. I don’t know if I can take another one of those just yet.” 

“Want to trade?” Hikaru says before he realizes he’s said it. He holds his breath, not wanting to suddenly make clear what he wished to hide.   
He liked Pavel. After enough alcohol, he could admit it to himself. But as a detective and a crime victim, they could never have a personal relationship. But if Jim were on the case….

“I’d love to,” Jim blurts. “Maybe this time we can get the bastards.” 

“Yeah,” Hikaru says while thinking of golden curls and eyes that perhaps one day won’t be blackened. “Maybe this time.” 

 

The next Sunday Hikaru goes to visit his mother. He chose an early time to avoid his father, who never misses Mass at the cathedral. Why his parents picked up Catholicism as newlyweds, Hikaru would never understand. The Church, in Hikaru's opinion, had worked to tear the family apart. 

Hikaru enters the room slowly and speaks softly. “Mom?”

No response but a shuffle of bedsheets. He expected this. 

“Hey, mom, it’s me,” he says, slowly moving toward the bed. “Hikaru.” 

More shuffling. A face appears: his mothers, but aged and drooping. She doesn’t say a word; Hikaru knows she can’t. But there’s a hint of recognition in her face, her half-smile. 

Suddenly, with much effort, she speaks:

“Don’t,” she whispers, the initial D explosive like a cymbal. “Don't.” She looks up. “D- d-" 

His mother’s devotion, so strong it beat Broca’s aphasia, resounds. Hikaru feels slightly dizzy. 

He leaves not long afterward, not wanting to cross paths with this father in the early morning. 

 

It’s strange: as a (relatively) young gay man, living in San Francisco as America celebrates the first anniversary of Obergefell v. Hodges, he should not be feeling so much guilt. And yet, Hikaru’s chest aches as he walks uphill. 

He strolls through the city on his days off, reminding himself how lucky he is to live not too far from the rich side of town. He admires the architecture of the old houses, their elaborate flower garden, and the air of history that clings to this place. 

He stops by his favorite house—and imposing, dark wooden two-story with dark green shutters and doors, the whole thing built into the side of a hill. There are two cars parked in the driveway: a shiny black Prius and a dented, tan Chevy Impala. The second car is familiar to Hikaru, though he can’t quite place it—  
The front door to the house opens. There’s a couple kissing goodbye. They’re both men, Hikaru notes, feeling that twinge of guilt in his chest. One is tall and pale with dark hair, and the other one is—

As both men turn to face him, Hikaru locks eyes with D.A. Spock and Jim. 

He begins to briskly walk away. 

“Hey!” he hears Jim yell, but he’s hesitant to turn back. “Hey! Hikaru!” 

“Sorry!” Hikaru calls back, “Just passing through!” 

“Kid! Come back!” Jim yells, and Hikaru obeys. 

Oh god, he frets, I just outed Jim Kirk. He and the D.A. could lose their jobs, their—

“Hikaru!” Jim says, breathless. He’s run the length of the driveway to meet Hikaru. Spock, Hikaru sees, has gone back inside. 

Jim roughly grabs his shoulder. “Come with me.” 

Jim drives urgently but purposelessly, turning sharply into one residential area after another. Hikaru holds onto his seatbelt with locked fists. 

“You can’t say anything,” Jim blurts, finally. “I could get into trouble, and Spock could lose his job, and … he doesn’t deserve that.” 

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Hikaru replies. And then, unbidden: “I wouldn’t want to be outed, either.” 

Jim’s shoulders tense, and the car stops abruptly at a stoplight. But then Hikaru sees him visibly relax. 

“You too, huh?” Jim asks softly. 

“Yeah,” Hikaru says, and he feels like he’s admitting it to himself as well. “Me too.” 

Like most encounters with Jim Kirk, this one ends in a bar. Jim, as usual, is powering through beers, though this time Hikaru tries to keep up with him. They’re on number four … or maybe five. 

“So,” Jim begins. “Out of all the organizations in San Francisco, why did you choose to work for this one when it’s so … macho? Homophobic? I mean, I have an excuse, but you?”

“You have an excuse?” Hikaru counters. 

“My dad. Died a long time ago, but he was the chief of police. You know this. I had to join. It was the one thing that I was supposed to do.” Jim takes a long swig of his beer. “Follow in his footsteps and all that.” 

“That could be more than an excuse,” Hikaru says softly. “It could be a reason.” 

“So what’s your reason?” 

Hikaru pauses. “I’m not sure. I wanted to, I guess.” 

Jim scoffs. “Tell me the real reason.” 

Hikaru sighs. He waits for Jim to pick up his next drink before he starts again. “I wanted to save people. Save at least one person. That way I’d be, well, worth it.” 

“Worth it?” Jim asks, one eyebrow raised. “All right.” 

They talk for a while, mostly about work, but the conversation seems to have passed its peak. Hikaru worries that his reason may have bothered Jim, may have cooled things off somehow. But then he remembers—the Rand case. And the case he traded Jim for it. 

“You know,” Hikaru begins, “the Rand case isn’t going too bad. The kids are all right, considering. They aren’t targets, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Jim smiles slightly. “Well thank god.” He finishes his drink but doesn’t order another, not yet. “I guess that’s about as lucky as we get in this job.”   
Hikaru nods, contemplating how his next question will go over. 

“How is your case going? The one from the hospital.” 

“Oh, you mean Pavel?” Jim asks surprised. “He never speaks to us. I wonder if he’s caught up in something.” 

“Like drugs?” 

“Like trafficking,” Jim says. “Don’t be so surprised. It happens more often than you’d think.” 

As Hikaru fumbles for his wallet when the cab drops him off that night, he finds a card in his pocket: his own. As he walks up to his front door, he recognizes the writing on the front of the card: it’s the number Pavel gave him. 

For months after he does it, Hikaru will both celebrate and dread his picking up the phone that night. He will wrack his brain for a reason—why he did it at home, while drunk, without documenting that he’d been given the card—but he won’t be able to find one that satisfies him. All Hikaru can say—to the detectives, the lawyers, but not always to himself—is that he was curious. 

Just curious.


	5. Chapter 5

Spock visits the squad room a few days later, his hair slightly mussed—which, Hikaru has heard, is his equivalent to looking like a car crash victim. The detectives are in their morning meeting, going over active cases, reviewing protocol, and the like. Hikaru is almost relieved when he hears Spock call from the front of the room. 

“Jim.” Then, a little louder, “Jim!” 

Jim, already looking pale, excuses himself. He seems to know why he’s being hailed. 

“What do you think that’s about?” whispers the man next to him. Hikaru turns to see detective Scott, a longtimer at SVU with half an accent Hikaru can’t place. 

“They’re working on a case together,” Hikaru answers. 

Scott scoffs. “The York case? They’ll be working on that until the world ends.” He scratches the grey-blond stubble on his chin. “Those two are awfully close, I’d say.” 

Hikaru tries not to choke. “Well, they do work together—“

“I know that,” Scott interrupts. “I just wouldn’t be surprised if something else were going on.” 

“Well…” Hikaru says, his mouth dry, “I would. Be surprised, I mean.” 

Detective Scott shrugs and turns back to the front, where Sergeant Pike has resumed the meeting, going on about investigating cases without DNA. 

When Kirk comes back from his meeting with Spock, it’s nearly lunch. Kirk is still pale, and his eyes are focused on something just beyond the far wall. His sleeves are rolled up and his hands are locked into fists. 

“Hikaru,” he starts quietly. Then, a little louder, “Hikaru, come here.” He turns around, heads back into the interrogation room where Spock is waiting. 

Hikaru follows, keenly aware of Scott’s eyes on his back. 

“Sit down,” Spock orders, motioning for Hikaru to take a seat across from Jim. Spock stays standing over the head of the table, a thick case file in his arms. He inspects the two detectives with a hint of concern on his face—extremely telling for the usually stolid man. 

“Detective Sulu,” he says, turning to Hikaru. “Jim has recused himself from this case.” 

Hikaru looks at Jim, who is staring intently at something far behind Hikaru, something Hikaru cannot see. 

“And so, he has chosen you to continue investigating this case. There has been a new lead, as I have been informed—“ Spock’s eyes dart to Jim “—and we both believe that your fresh eyes would be best for this case.” 

Something clicks for Hikaru. “Is this about you two being together?”

Spock purses his lips. “While it is fortuitous that we have met you, I cannot say that it is the reason we chose you. Jim … trusts you,” Spock explains, motioning to the still-silent detective. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must speak to Sergeant Pike.” 

When his mother had the stroke, Hikaru wasn’t told until she was out of surgery the next day. His father called him, sounding gruff over the phone, but he didn’t seem to be angry. When Hikaru arrived at the hospital, his father had offered him something they hadn’t shared in years: a hug. 

Hikaru didn’t recognize its significance at the time, however. His eyes were out of focus, his mind reeling from the information that his mom might die. He remembers that realization not hitting him until that very moment; before then, he must’ve been in some sort of a daze. 

A daze like Jim’s. As the two of them sit alone in the interrogation room, Hikaru wonders what realization is about to come to Jim. Jim, for his part, hardly acknowledges that Hikaru’s there. He sits, staring past the wall ahead of him. 

Hikaru knows better than to talk now. So, he waits. 

 

The cell phone number Pavel gave him turn out to be his personal phone—or at least that’s what Hikaru thinks so far. The other night, Pavel had answered his phone, scaring Hikaru. He pretended to be following up:

“This is Detective Sulu from the San Francisco Special Victims Unit. Are you Pavel Chekov?” 

“Yes…” his voice sounded uneasy. 

“I…I was wondering if you could give me some more background on your situation. What brought you to the hospital? Are you holding up okay?” Hikaru cursed himself for sounding so concerned. So personally involved. 

“I’ve told you detectives this so many times.” Pavel seemed to sigh. “But I am getting better, yes. Until he finds me again, I suppose….” 

The sarcasm stung Hikaru. “If you feel like sharing anything else, I’m sure my colleague has already given you his contact information.” 

Silence from the other end. 

“Take care, Pavel,” Hikaru says by way of goodbye. 

He hadn’t heard anything about Pavel since.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some kind of graphic mentions of the aftermath of sexual assault. Take care of yourselves, guys!

After his lunch break that day, after Jim recused himself, Hikaru tosses his phone from hand to hand. He’s toying with the idea of calling Pavel again—just to check up on him, that’s how he’ll justify it to himself—but he has that case file to look through. The Frank York case. 

The file folder on the desk in front of him is intimidating. A little over an inch thick, it’s apparently full of heinous crimes—crimes that have been difficult to prosecute so far. Hikaru is supposed to talk to Jim later today to get briefed on the case and a possible new lead, but Jim’s eyes haven’t come back into focus yet today. Hikaru can look over the files himself while he waits. 

The first thing he sees in the file is one of those body diagrams, the kind they use in SANE exams. Only, the paper is much older and he doesn’t recognize the name of the nurse who signed off. He looks at the date—1992. 

Holy shit, Hikaru thinks. This has been going on for over 20 years. 

There are other diagrams, other nurse reports, on several other victims—mostly in their teens, though some are younger. Interspersed with the exams are newspaper clippings and affidavits, all referring to city councilman Frank York. 

That’s why the name stood out, Hikaru realizes. He’s important in town. 

And that’s what makes the file all the more disturbing. The dates of the boys’ assaults line up with public events or with charity events put on by Mr. York. However, Hikaru can’t find much more compelling evidence linking York to the crimes—the boys are afraid to say who hurt them. 

He feels a twinge in his stomach. Perhaps he read too much at once. 

Maybe that’s how Jim feels, he wonders. 

Jim never does brief him that day, and Hikaru doesn’t ask. Instead, he forwards the Rand case to the A.D.A. for adult cases—a Mr. Khan—and finishes up some paperwork to finish out the day. 

It’s a clichéd way to think, Hikaru knows, but it’s like Pavel’s number is calling him. Pleading, even. Matching Hikaru’s curiosity with the spectre of harm. He has to check to make sure Pavel’s ok. It’s his duty, he reasons. 

On the phone, Pavel’s voice is small and weak. Hikaru has to turn off the radio in his apartment to hear him properly. 

“Why are you calling me,” he says flatly. It isn’t a question; it’s a demand: stop. 

But Hikaru presses further. “Pavel, are you okay? I wanted to check up on you … follow up with you.” 

“Don’t,” Pavel says, and suddenly Hikaru is reminded of his mother. “Just don’t.” 

“I’m going to make sure you’re okay!” Hikaru blurts. There’s a well of anger inside him, one he didn’t know existed until now. “I’m doing this because I care about you, Pavel, and I want you to be okay!” 

There’s silence on the line. For a moment Hikaru worries that Pavel has hung up, but then he responds: 

“Meet me on Larch street, where the bakery is. Tomorrow at noon.” 

Hikaru spends dinner in the hospital cafeteria, after being turned away from his mother’s room once again. The hospital’s version of fried rice tastes like peanut butter, and Hikaru spends a while pushing the clumps of peas and rice from one side of his plate to the other. 

“Hey!” someone calls from the other side of the room. “Detective Sulu!” 

Nurse extern Christine Chapel is powerwalking through the cafeteria, blood pressure machine in tow. “Detective Sulu! How are you?” 

Hikaru shrinks into his seat, instinctively. “Hello,” he says back, “I’m okay…”

“Well I’m glad to hear it!” Christine says a little too loudly. “How is Pavel doing?” 

“I—uh. I can’t discuss the particulars of a case like this, I’m sorry.”

Christine gives him a knowing look. “I see.” 

Suddenly an idea comes to Hikaru. “You haven’t made a statement about his case, have you?” 

She shakes her head no. 

“Come with me.”

In an empty hospital room, Hiaru takes out a pad of paper and turns to face Christine, who is sitting on the bed. He’s doing this to help Jim, he reasons. Jim has been having a bad time, anyway. Hikaru stares for a moment at Christine’s pierced cheeks, then asks: 

“How did Pavel tell you that he had been assaulted?” 

Christine pauses. “Well, it’s kind of a long story.” 

“That’s okay,” Hikaru reassures her. “Just tell me as much as you can remember.” 

“Okay,” she says, thinking. “It started when the nurse and I got suspicious that he wouldn’t sit up. He’d lie down just fine, usually on one side, but he wouldn’t sit up. This kept going on even after he was up and walking, and it was just agony to take him outside of his room because he would take so long to sit down. Finally I just asked him why and he said—he said—“ she stops, suddenly choked up. “In his words, not mine, he said, ‘because that’s where I got fucked,’ she finishes, her voice breaking. 

“It’s okay,” Hikaru says, trying to soothe her. “So you mean he told you that he had been penetrated.” 

“Yes,” Christine answers. “And he told me he didn’t want it to happen and that’s why he got beaten and that it would happen again as soon as he went back home,” she says, stopping to take a breath. “I hope he’s safe now.”


	7. Chapter 7

Jim doesn’t show up for work the next day. Hikaru writes a note for him about the new lead in the York case—could he let Hikaru know what it is, exactly?—and leaves it on his desk to find when he comes back. 

Noon approaches slowly, and Hikaru is half-considering taking the day off to deal with the anticipation. He ends up leaving early for lunch and telling sergeant Pike that he’ll be working out of the office on the York case through the early afternoon. It’s a lie, but it’s justified, Hikaru thinks. Somehow. 

Larch street is only a few blocks from the police department, and the smell of the bakery draws him in. BRIGHT STARS BAKERY, the sign reads, and the woman at the counter has a bright smile as well. NYOTA, the badge on her shirt says. 

Hikaru orders two cinnamon rolls—perhaps Pavel will talk more if he’s given food, Hikaru thinks—and he begins devouring his own. He’s hungry, he figures. And nervous. This isn’t exactly a normal interview with a victim, he has to admit. 

In the end, Pavel sneaks up on him. He pokes Hikaru in the back while he’s sitting at a table outside. 

“You came,” Pavel says. 

“You sound surprised,” Hikaru answers. 

Pavel looks down, contemplating something. “Let’s go inside,” he says. 

After a bit of prodding, Pavel takes a bite of the cinnamon roll. “It hurts a little to eat,” he explains, motioning to his cheek. There’s a mark there, maybe one that will scar, but Pavel leans back in his seat when Hikaru moves in closer to look. He’s maintaining personal space, Hikaru notes, a defense mechanism. 

There’s no question that someone has hurt him, and hurt him badly. 

There is one question that remains, however: who? When Hikaru brings up the assault—the assaults, plural—Pavel dodges. 

“How can I trust you? How long have you even been doing this?” 

“Almost a few months,” Hikaru replies. It’s an easy way of saying not long at all. “But I worked as a beat cop for years before that.” 

“So you’ve broken up domestic disputes,” Pavel says, his eyes shining. There’s a cinnamon crumb on his lower lip, and it trembles as Pavel whispers, “This is a domestic thing.” 

Hikaru begins to lean forward again, then stops himself. “A domestic problem? Between you and a family member?” 

“It’s domestic as in private. As in you should stop snooping,” Pavel fires back. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.” 

“But Pavel,” Hikaru pleads, “if someone is hurting you, I want to help. A family member, a boyfriend—“ 

Pavel wrinkles his nose. 

“There’s no shame in it,” Hikaru supplies, though there’s a twinge in his stomach. “There’s no shame in anything about this. You’ve been hurt.” Hikaru bangs his fist on the table for emphasis and the whole bakery goes silent. 

Pavel mumbles something and the cinnamon crumb falls off his lip. His eyes, hazel before, look like they’re turning green in contrast to the red around them. 

Hikaru leans in, and this time, Pavel doesn’t jerk back. 

“My uncle,” he says softly, “on my mother’s side. David.” 

“His last name?” Hikaru breathes. 

“York.” 

 

Early in his days at SVU, Hikaru and the rest of the department attended a mandatory stress-relief workshop, headed by Dr. McCoy. The doctor could barely keep his eyes from rolling during some of the stress-reducing technique demonstrations, but there was one he seemed to take seriously: mindfulness. 

“Now I want everyone to lean back in your chairs and close your eyes,” Dr. McCoy instructed. 

Hikaru heard a crack from the chair next to him.   
“Don’t lean back too far, Jim,” Dr. McCoy cautioned. “Now,” he began, “I want you to focus on relaxing the tips of your toes … then your feet … then your ankles….” 

All around him, Hikaru heard the breaths of his co-workers slow to a relaxed pace. Except for the person next to him—Jim’s breaths seemed to be speeding up into a panic. By the time everyone was relaxing their thighs, there was another crack in the chair next to Hikaru. 

“I can’t do this,” Jim half-shouted. “I gotta go.” 

 

Trying to reassure Pavel on the way out of the bakery, the mindfulness incident briefly flashes through Hikaru’s mind. As Pavel named his abuser, the tears broke, and he stood up from his chair, hyperventilating. He smacks Hikaru’s hand away from his shoulder as he rushes out. 

“Pavel!” Hikaru calls, jogging to catch up to him. “It’s all right.” 

“No!” Pavel shouts, and Hikaru can hear the silence of the people nearby stopping to eavesdrop. “No, it’s not all right, because he’s going to find out I told you, and then he’s going to find me, and—and—“ Pavel is pulling at his hair, eyes darting in every direction as if his uncle would come by at any moment. 

“No, Pavel, he’s not going to find you,” Hikaru says, one hand outstretched. “I promise.” 

Pavel grabs his hand and squeezes tight.


End file.
